


spotlight

by morimaru



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Gaslighting, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Obsession, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Stalking, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morimaru/pseuds/morimaru
Summary: Being a famous psychic puts you in the spotlight; arguably, that is the entire point of being - or, rather, pretending to be - a psychic. And, unfortunately, bright light attracts all kinds of attention.Patrick Jane knows that well. Still, he didn't expect to get burned by this light again.orDespite having left the scene years ago, Patrick Jane still has fans. Or, to be more precise, one fan. A fan that is completely devoted to him.It's not a good thing.
Relationships: OMC/Patrick Jane, Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	1. blinding

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again with the Jane-pain (and another head trauma). I'm predictable, sue me (jk, please don't). I'm still not sure as to whether or not this will get finished but I was itching to post something and figured that posting it might give me more motivation to get my butt into gear and write at least one more chapter. Recent quarantine gives me just this tiny bit more free time to do something else other than just sit there and write my thesis.   
> Also, nevermind the darkish tags, I'm intending it to not be super-angsty. Well. Maybe just a little bit.

Truly, God works in mysterious ways.

And to think that he was just about to give up!

Benjamin stares at the man's retreating back, before quickly rubbing his eyes in an almost-cartoonish gesture. It seems too good to be true. Wouldn't be the first time it happened; the first few months after his love's disappearance, he saw the man everywhere - only for it to turn out to be some complete stranger, a fake, a pretender, with barely enough resemblance for his starved mind to clutch onto - the perfect image always quickly deteriorating into dust. So he doesn't trust it today, either. Not really. Except when he rubs his eyes and stares harder from behind the thick lenses of his glasses, the unsuspecting man stays the same: his hair, though longer and curlier than before, is the right shade of blond, glistening gold in the early autumn sun, and he's the right height, moving with the same even, confident gait that he remembers so well from his shows. God knows he rewatched the recordings enough times to know the way he moves by heart - he could pick him out from the crowd just by the width and lightness of his steps. _It's him_ , his heart screams at Benjamin, _it has to be him_. How could it be anyone else?

His pulse stuttering frantically under the skin, Benjamin follows the man covertly. He needs to be sure. Oh, but what if it really is him? What then?

 _I can't let him go_ , he thinks desperately, sweating even under his too-thin, ratty old coat. _I can't, he'll disappear again. No. No, no, no._

He has just enough presence of mind to not run after him. He slithers between the flimsy early morning crowd on the sidewalk - pretends to look at his phone when the man abruptly stops in front of a tiny, hole-in-the-wall bakery - patiently waits in an alleyway until he comes back out, warm cinnamon smell wafting out of the door, a brown crinkling bag with some sweet pastry in his hands. He's so close, Benjamin finally catches a clear glimpse of his face. His fluttering stomach knots itself tightly, familiar acidic pain climbing up his esophagus. It's the nerves - his restlessness reaching its peak because _yeah, he knows this face_. He knows it well. A bit older, perhaps, but just as beautiful as he remembers it from years prior. Just as serene, with a perpetual light tan and a slight blush from the unusually cold air. And those eyes! The color he could never capture in a painting, breaking pencils in frustration; the chameleon-like, ever-changing green and blue and grey, bright and fickle. Like sea glass.

The man breathes in deeply as he steps off the bakery porch. The air is crisp and clean, it feels like biting into a fresh, shiny apple - Benjamin knows the feeling, and, still cowering in the shadows, admires the way the man's body moves as he arches his back and stretches, like a cat bathing in the sunlight, one hand hugging the brown bag and another up in the air, eyes squeezed shut. _He must be tired. He never gets enough sleep._

God, he needs to do something. He needs to do something now.

Isn't there anything. Anything at all, that he can use? Something that will help him. Something that will help him keep his love close. All to himself. He needs it so badly he might just go mad if he slips away yet again. Something, anything, please-

That's when the thought hits him. _The instruments._ Fool, what a fool he was! His work bag that he's been holding in his hand this entire time - surely something in there will be of use.

He's still there, standing in the sunlight - motionless, beautiful and oblivious. Enjoying the moment. Breathing quietly. Almost as if he's waiting for Benjamin on purpose. Egging him on to do something already.

Benjamin's happy to oblige. Slowly, quietly, he pushes the buckle on his bag open and reaches inside, feeling the insides of it blindly until his fingers close around the smooth handle of a hammer.

Yes, that would do the trick.

His car shouldn’t be too far away from here yet, and there are no people around - if he makes his move now, he'll probably get away with it. He knows he’s strong enough to pull it off. The heaviness of his tool makes him feel so much more confident, he finally takes the leap.

Benjamin steps carefully back into the thick, blue-and-black ink darkness between the buildings, feeling himself every bit the lucky hunter hiding between the tall dark trees in the woods, and calls out in a hoarse voice. He calls out for help. He sounds desperate enough for his prey to startle and peer inside the darkness. Benjamin presses himself to the wall, cold stones against his back. His eyes are used to the dark; he doubts the same is true for _him_. He's all but invisible, standing like this. Again, he calls, this time weaker, more lost, needy. 

The man follows his call. He freezes at the entrance to the alleyway at first, lingers there for the longest time, like a fearful deer at the entrance to the cave of the dragon, staring into the maw of the beast. Benjamin waits. _It has to work_ , he grips the hammer, _it has to._

The man waits and waits, and then he loses his battle with curiosity and the faithful, unfailing, ever so human instinct to help, and takes a few tentative steps inside.

He always did seem like such a nice, helpful man - Benjamin's glad to know it's true.

In the end, it works so well, Benjamin could cry - tears of happiness, of course. Sooner than later, just a little over half-way in, spooked by the unsavory smells and the absence of a supposed victim, he turns away, not daring to venture further. Or, perhaps, planning to call for help himself. That would be the sensible thing to do. But he doesn't get the chance to do that - he barely even has the moment to turn around at the sound of Benjamin's sharp steps against the pavement as he rushes him, hammer heavy and ready in hand.

Benjamin doesn't allow himself a second of doubt. He raises his hand and he strikes once, above the man's right ear, quick and smooth and without mercy.

His hit lands perfectly, and he falls. Limp. Without a whimper. His brown bag drops to the ground next to him as he slumps to the pavement with a thud - Benjamin doesn't bother picking it up. Instead, overjoyed and shaking from excitement, he hurriedly stuffs the hammer back into his leather bag and pulls the man's body further away from the view, behind the dumpster. His hands ever so tender, heedless of the blood gushing from the wound that the very same hands made, staining the gold with red. He hurriedly shrugs off his own jacket, jittery and shaky and practically giddy from sheer nerves. Benjamin wraps him up in the worn-out fabric and carries the man away with habitual ease.

He’s so deliriously happy, with his arms heavy with his precious cargo, that he doesn't notice the horrified store clerk from the bakery next door staring at his retreating back.


	2. a revelation in the light of day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so it begins!  
> Jane's getting some strange letters and Lisbon is not pleased

It starts with letters. Letters that Jane studiously ignores for weeks under the bemused stares of his colleagues.

-What’s that? – Lisbon asks him one evening, a slice of pizza half-eaten in her hand, - You’ve got an admirer or something?

They’re all still high on solving their latest case, and a bit giddy. There’s a clear amused note in Jane’s voice when he answers her with a habitual grin:

-Besides you, you mean? Oh, Lisbon, you hurt me with your insinuations.

She smacks him with a free hand on the back and he pretends that it hurt – their usual game. It’s normal. Still, Lisbon doesn’t miss the way his face tightens for a moment before his usual beaming smile takes its place, nor does she miss the way he covertly slides the envelope further away on his desk – obviously hoping to divert her attention and then let the mysterious letter get lost amidst the clutter on his desk. _Which, by the way, she really needs to tell him to get on that and clean it up._

It’s the third one she’s seen this week alone.

Jane might be a master of masks, but he can be astoundingly easy to read at times. Lisbon doesn’t imagine for one moment that she can read _all_ of him – but she knows him well enough at this point to notice small things like these.

She knows him well enough to know that whatever it is, he’s worried.

She takes a bite of her pizza and narrows her eyes at him with suspicion and a full mouth. Jane just raises his hands mockingly and shakes his head, still smiling.

-Nothing criminal this time, - he chirps, - Promise! Besides, who would even want to write to a washed-up, ex fake psychic anyway?

The slightest bit of contempt in his words is hidden behind the cheerful façade. Clearly he has no intention of telling her about the letters, not without some persistent prodding on her part. That alone tells her it’s something serious – serious enough to bother him, badly enough for Jane to try and hide it. If it was something as simple as a fan letter, or maybe another hate mail from the many insulted victims of his wit, he wouldn’t hide it. _Does he think she’s stupid?_

She finishes the remains of her piece and opens her mouth to ask him that directly, but before she makes a sound, he interjects with a question of her own:

-So, do you think the clown deserved it? I reckon he did. If there’s one thing you learn being a carny is that you shouldn’t trust clowns. _Never_ trust a clown, Lisbon.

It’s just sudden enough to distract her. 

Doesn’t mean she will stop pressing the issue, though.

The very next day, she arrives earlier at the office – way earlier than she usually does, sleep-deprivation bags under her eyes, and tiptoes around the dark squad room. The couch is blessedly empty when she peers around one of the desks carefully. _So he did go home after all. That’s good,_ she thinks. As over-caffeinated and sleep-deprived as she was most of the time, Jane was even more sleep-deprived – on a constant basis. She knew his sleep issues well, intimately familiar with his erratic sleeping patters - having to alternatively either persuade him to get some rest one day or shake him awake out of a slumber that lasted well into the afternoon the next. Did it make her frustrated? Sure, frequently. There was not a lot about Jane that didn’t frustrate her, even some of his better qualities could infuriate a person on a good day. And good days didn’t happen to Jane all that often. But did she blame him for it? No. Not often, anyway. Not after what happened to him and his family. How could someone go through something like this unscathed?

Sometimes, the sheer magnitude of the trauma he went through hit her in what felt like a head-on collision, making her insides ache in sympathy. The mere act of discovering two bloodied corpses would have been enough to scar anyone, but those were the bodies of his wife and daughter that he found – and the thought of him coming home to find them butchered, eviscerated, their lives devoured by that monster - honestly, it was a miracle that the man was as high-functioning as he was already. The mere concept of it was so horrifyingly out of the realm of sanity, she could barely comprehend it happening.

She knew then that monsters did exist, and that she wouldn’t rest until they locked that particular monster once and for all.

All in all, seeing that couch empty felt good because it meant that for once Jane went home to get some proper rest on a proper bed – as much of a poor home as a hotel room was, to her mind it was infinitely better than a couch. He spent so much time there, she could almost see a phantom impression of his body on it: curled up on a side, facing the back of it, or stretched out lazily, using his a jacket instead of a blanket, a position that seems startlingly uncomfortable at a first glance but is apparently perfectly fine by Jane.

Jane gone also meant that she could sneak to his desk and check for that letter uninterrupted. Which is why she showed up here so early in the first place. It had to be there, unless he managed to throw it in the garbage bin when she wasn’t looking, what with his devilishly good sleight of hand – but he probably didn’t since she didn’t see him approach his desk after he left the letter there last night. It was part sheer curiosity, part worry, both for Jane and for her teammates. Something was obviously wrong here, and she had to know what all the more because it was Jane. Whenever something, anything went wrong with Jane, it would surely come back to bite in the ass all of them – just give it some time and there it would be, sure as rain falling from the sky. Her own out-of-line curiosity aside, she couldn’t let that happen.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Jane was innocent – oh no, he did more than his fair share of sneaking around behind her back, often with disastrous consequences (the whole Boscoe fiasco immediately came to mind). He couldn’t expect her to just never pay him back with the same coin.

Her eyes darted around the room, checking – but there was nobody else here but her and the security guards outside. The official workday wasn’t due to start in another hour-and-a-half, which meant that she had at least forty minutes till Cho’s arrival. Rigsby was routinely late since Monday, explaining it by some sort of trouble with his car. Van Pelt usually came on time, no more than 5-to-10 minutes late on days when she got coffee for the team. And Jane – well. He followed his own schedule. Another one of his frustrating habits, up there with the erratic sleep schedule and overly-tactile disposition (which translated into touching everything and everyone he wasn't supposed to touch, including vital evidence, murder suspects and other people's food and kitchen appliances). Some days he showed up on the dot – other days, she had to ring and ring him until his majesty would finally deign it appropriate to show his face at some ungodly late hour, only to crash on his favorite couch and ignore her. That was exactly what he did yesterday, right when the murder clown case was called in. 

Come to think of it, that was also what he did the week before, three days in a row. And the week before that. 

One way or another, Jane’s particularly irregular schedule meant that she needed to be as quick as possible. You never knew with Jane – with her luck, he could show up in the next five minutes, although she dearly hoped he would take his sweet time getting here today.

Lisbon approached his desk, eyeing the clutter disdainfully. A cup with miscellaneous pens and pencils, stolen from all around the building and from at least one crime scene that she knew of, a curiously kleptomaniac and seemingly compulsive habit of his that she did her best to eradicate. A writing pad. A stack of books – numerology, astronomy, color coordination theory, how to use watercolors (a beginner’s guide) and a few others that probably had no place being in an FBI building. A couple of bouncing rubber balls and glass marbles. A red stapler. _Wait, isn’t it_ her _red stapler? The one she was looking for just yesterday? Dammit, Jane._ A flat tin box of mints. A couple of hard candies. A pack of cards. A thin, silvery, vintage-looking letter opener. _There!_ Suddenly, she noticed – the letter from last night. The yellowish envelope was sloppily marked with an address and a name of the receiver in a big, round, flowery cursive, with big looping ends; she noted that it was actually addressed to their building and department, not Jane’s old house in Malibu or the hotel he currently stayed at. So the author knew where Jane worked at the very least. Lisbon wasn’t sure why, but she felt it was important, this tiny bit of information – and that also meant something sinister. She wasn’t sure why it gave her this sucking feeling in her stomach, but it only compelled her to go further as in her mind it confirmed that it was important, with the big letter I. Carefully, with two fingers, absentmindedly wishing for latex gloves, she picked it up. The envelope was opened, carefully cut open – by Jane himself, she supposed, with the very letter opener that she just saw lying on his desk. That meant she could actually read it – without trying to reseal it again later, which would be most definitely a special type of pain in the ass. Delicate handiwork wasn’t her kind of work. Frozen in place, she shook the letter out – plain white paper folded in two to fit inside the convert and covered in the same old-fashioned. flowery handwriting from top to the bottom. Her eyes latched onto the text.

She managed to get as far as the first sentence – _Dear mister Jane, I do so hope that this letter reaches you in good health, for you have been working yourself into the ground for moths and it bothers me immensely, especially with the way you haven’t even once replied to even one of my_ – surprised and a bit amused by the purple-prose style of it and unnerved by it in equal parts when she heard the door creak open behind her. Her ears immediately burning, she belatedly lowered the letter, hoping that somehow she wasn’t seen doing what she was doing and _knowing_ still that it must be Jane standing there and that he did saw everything.

Slowly but resolutely, she turned around.

Just as she thought, it was Jane, true to his contradicting nature and coming in early on the one day she wished he didn’t – and watching her intensely from the doorway, without a smile.

Seeing him like this was a disquieting experience - because it reminded her of Jane's early days with the team and those first few months, back when Jane was an outsider, a pitiful mess - red-eyed, white-faced, scruffy and uncaring, too thin for his age and lean frame. He buried himself in the Red John case files and pursued all possible leads with all the charm and personality of a great white shark smelling blood in the water. Uncaring, single-minded, driven. Fragile.

Then, gradually, a metamorphose happened. That rare, wan smile grew stronger, suits started fitting better, sharp edges weren’t quite as sharp anymore, and a few months later, the happy mask has finally slid firmly into its place. This joyful carnival mask was so good you could barely see Patrick behind it.

Still, Lisbon had to admit that she didn’t miss the cold, dead-eyed shark look that still found its way onto her consultant’s face from time to time.

They stood there for a beat. 

-I suppose, - he said, - I don’t need to ask what you’re doing over there.

Feeling guilty, Lisbon shook her head, the letter still in hands.

-Anything interesting? – he asked then.

-Uh, - she said, feeling more and more like a child, - I didn’t get very far. Just the first two lines.

Then, her indignation flared up:

-What the hell is _this_ , Jane? I thought you said it wasn’t a fan letter, but it certainly looks like one! A pretty odd one, in fact!

-That’s really none of your business, Lisbon, - he retorted, very lightly and just as eerily calm as before. _Damnit._

He was correct, technically – she couldn’t argue with that, not when he literally caught her red-handed and going through his, well, private correspondence. It was none of her business whether that was a fan letter or a family member reaching out or a damn acceptance letter from Hogwarts. But that wrong feeling from before, the curious queasiness of those first two lines, never went away, and Jane was so painfully obviously hiding something – and _why_?

She glanced at the letter in her hands momentarily again, catching words here and there – _can’t, love, like before, only, angry, back, forgive_ – and at the very bottom, _see you soon_.

That left her chilled.

She looked up again. 

Now, instead of weirdly detached, he looked exasperated more than anything else. The same way he looked whenever she accused him of doing something reckless, illegal, or both, and he would just play innocent, shrug and shake his head in mock disappointment when she (rightfully so) didn’t believe him.

-C’mon, Lisbon, - he said with emphasis, - It’s just a letter. Why get so worked up about it? Wouldn’t I say something if it was something dangerous?

-No, - she flatly said, guilt slowly but surely dissipating, - You wouldn’t. You know you wouldn’t. And when you don’t say something or try to play it down, that usually means trouble.

-Okay, - he gives up, - _Maybe_ I wouldn’t. But it’s still just fan mail – believe it or not, nothing new for me. Nothing scary or dangerous about it. Certainly, nothing to warrant going through my things when I’m not here. Though I must admit I am impressed! Well done, Lisbon!

Jane clapped demonstratively.

She felt her cheeks redden slightly again.

She might have been tempted to believe him, were it not for the way he looked at her when she first saw him standing at the entrance – that quiet and intense stare, flat, humorless. Disturbed. Jane must have thought she didn’t realize it or didn’t notice the expression on his face; he was so comfortable and confident in his superior intellect he sometimes forgot that other people, including her, weren’t quite as oblivious or helpless as he’d like to think. No matter how irreplaceable Jane had seemingly become, she used to close cases all on her own, way before he ever appeared in her - their - lives. 

Or maybe Jane himself didn’t realize – didn’t realize that he let his true emotions show.

This time, she was not going to let his usual “deflect and deny” routine stop her from trying to help him. She promised herself that. No more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! and also sorry for the abrupt ending of this chapter. I should probably work on it a bit more, but I am dying to finally post something haha


	3. the dreaming state

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane wakes up

He woke up slowly, feeling distinctly sick – the way you feel waking up in the morning after a day spent in the cold, knowing that the illness has already settled in and made home in your body, in your very bones. The pain was dull but very unmistakably there, in his head. In an attempt to distract himself from the unpleasant sensation, Jane concentrated on his physical surroundings. He was lying on something soft and he was uncovered, aside from his own clothes – and he could feel a soft, wet breeze on his face, which carried a fresh, slightly earthy smell of recent rain.

Did he fall asleep on his couch in the bullpen? That wouldn't be surprising: he slept during the day quite often; it would probably be weirder if he didn't. But why was he feeling so sick? Was it a migraine? Jane was well aware of the possibility of a headache lurking around the corner at all times: he used to have them, before, a long time ago. Stress-induced migraines. Though rare, they were vivid and intense when they did happen. The dry, cotton-mouth feeling and what seemed to be aftershocks of a headache would imply it. And as far as his headaches went, this one must have been _terrific_ – the remainder of it still concentrating on the right side of his head and ringing in his ear. It dug in sharply when he tried to move his head towards the wind.

But that was strange. Usually, he could feel it coming on – all the trusty, tell-tale, miserable signs of classic migraine, the so-called aura, _and wasn't it ironic that he, a fake psychic, had migraines with aura?_ \- the way the lights would shine brighter, the persistent dark spot in his field of vision, the dull, white noise in his ears. He tried to sleep it off, usually, if possible. Turn off all the lights, lie down and wait it out. But the last thing he remembered was wrapping up the case with the clowns, and there was no indication of an incoming migraine whatsoever. Moreover, he closed the case in what felt like record time – in time for them to get the discount on the late-night pizza, but early enough for delivery to still be available. His mind and senses were sharp as ever, not dulled by an approaching misery.

Jane opened his eyes to slits, wary of bright lights possibly making him nauseous – but the room he was in seemed delightfully dark. Blurry contours slowly sharpened into view and merged together, like a child’s connect-the-dots picture: a window above him, mostly covered by planks, a plain white ceiling marred by a single long crack running down the center and a rickety-looking old wooden wardrobe and a chair by the opposite wall. He himself was lying on a bed, it seems, on his back, with legs stretched out forward lifelessly – no shoes on.

Obviously, he wasn't in the bullpen. In fact, he had no idea where he was, he realized uncomfortably. The sight of that one, singular window right above him, bothered him: a boarded-up window was never a good thing to see, even more so from inside. 

Jane tried to move. But all he managed was a slight tremble in his left leg. His right leg remained unmoving – scarily so, mocking him with its stillness. Like he was sedated.

Or injured.

Was he?

Something was terribly wrong here.

That was when he realized, feeling awfully bare and vulnerable, alone in an unfamiliar place – he realized that the cotton-mouth feeling in his mouth wasn’t just an after-drug dryness, a frequent side-effect of a number of different types of medication that he had the misfortune to experience before. No. Things were much worse.

He was gagged. There was actually something stuffed into his _mouth_! Not too deep, presumably to avoid chocking him on accident, but more than enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Briefly, he thought of trying to pull it out and moved his hands up – only to realize that he was bound as well as gagged when something pulled on his skin. His jacket was missing, and the shirt sleeves were rolled up high, and both his bare wrists were taped together over his chest with layers upon layers of silvery duct-tape – why? Why?

_No._

As he was staring at himself with disbelief, confusion slowly but successfully graduating to full-fledged fear, the door to the left of him creaked open slightly. There was something – someone – there, standing in the doorway quietly. Watching him.

A person? Or his imagination?

The confusion, adding to the growing terror, reminded him awfully of his first days of hospitalization. They kept him drugged and quiet for a few days, not trusting him lucid – and rightfully so. There was no telling what he would do. Or, well, he knew what he would do had they let him – he did try before. That was the whole reason he was even there at all. With the help of drugs, Jane was never quite awake and never fully asleep, and there was always _something_ there, just a little out of the ways, moving away before he could take a good look. The outlines of a red symbol on the wall, looking black with the lights off. A shadowy figure, wispy and thin and dark, never really there but always somewhere close. A smile gleaming in the night, a sharp sliver of cold steel about to bury itself in his soft, yielding flesh – pain which he would have accepted gratefully – but the stab never came. Instead, he would open his eyes and the whiteness of his surroundings would hurt his eyes like snow blindness that he'd never experienced before but was willing to bet that it felt a lot like waking up in his room, bundled up and helpless and alone. His straining wrists were always unharmed in the soft, toothless padded leather cuffs. Everything in there was so overwhelmingly, dizzyingly _white_. Sometimes, white scares him more than red. Sometimes, he still sees it in his dreams - white that was once supposed to be comforting - bland white that smells like disinfectant and tastes like chalk, frosted-cold, bleached-clean. 

But that was then.

No, this was not just his imagination, not this time. A person, it was a person. The shadows moved and shifted, and the person slipped inside the room softly, moving in an oddly fluid manner. _Like a professional dancer,_ Jane thought numbly, _or a nurse_. _Yes, the nurses – they wore those soft shoes with rubber soles that barely made a sound. He could never tell where they were and whenever the numbness pulled back its heavy blanket off of him, he only hated them all the more for it._ Dressed all in black, he might have looked funny in any other situation, like an edgy teenager trying to look all brooding and dangerous – the type that would never actually do anything more dangerous than sneaking a cigarette behind the school or talking back to their parents - but not here, not now. Here, his appearance was almost fitting. This, this tiny room with a bed and a boarded window was a whole different world, cut off from the world Jane used to live in. It was just as far away from his hotel room, from the investigations and human suffering and the team and Lisbon, as was his life of a famous psychic removed from the world where Angela and Charlie were dead. They were impossibly far away from each other, never to collide again.

The man in black stepped closer. Through the black spots dancing in his vision, Jane could see that he was unusually pale – probably a result of some sort of a medical condition, like severe and untreated anemia, for people rarely were this pale just because of a lack of sunlight. No, this man needed more than just a tan. Even so, he could be called reasonably handsome was it not for his hollow cheeks ( _add a lack of nutrition to the list_ ) and sharp, hawkish, once-broken nose that made him look predatory despite his large, bright eyes and comically oversized, thick glasses that would probably otherwise put a person at ease.

He stopped right in front of Jane’s bed, clothes hanging off of him. Lean build, slightly underweight, but powerful – the result of not enough food and too much hard physical work – probably used to be bigger as well, but now he’s all bones and wiry muscles. And then, just as suddenly, smiled – warm and big. Still, the hollowness of his eyes was disconcerting.

-Welcome home, - he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's not too big, but hopefully it was enjoyable and not at all a mess that I suspect it is lol


	4. creeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so it continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long wait! I'm still alive and deep into job-hunting. While I cannot promise a steady upload schedule, I do have some drafts saved up so expect updates haha

Jane stares and stares. And then stares some more, until his vision gets all blurry – his eyes feel terribly sandy and he wishes he could just reach up and rub the remnants of his sleep – or unconsciousness, whether it was drugged or not is beside the point – out of them, but he finds it hard to move with this man leaning over him. It’s hard to move in general, period.

The man watches him right back from behind old-fashioned, horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. Feeling untethered, Jane clenches and unclenches his fingers slowly into fists, more of a nervous gesture than a serious attempt at testing his bonds. He knows he won’t be able to get out of them, anyway – the man had no qualms about gagging him, so it’s doubtful he left him any leeway with the bonds, either. He feels the muscles strain under the duct tape, the way the stickiness pulls at the fine, thin hair on his arms. The physical sensations are both comforting and not: it confirms in his mind that this is not a hazy, drugged-up dream that he is stuck in; he hates being drugged, _hates_ it, absolutely despises it, but he would accept even that if only this place ended up being just a dream.

The fact that this is distinctly not a dream is buzzing in his head like a drill under his skull. 

Suddenly, the man moves, and Jane can’t help but flinch. Even such a small movement is painful and he shuts his eyes harshly. When he opens them again, the man in black is close – too close. He was never really a big fan of physical contact, unless it was initiated by him, and any sort of unwarranted closeness or touching is usually a guaranteed way to either piss him off or alternatively make him rather uncomfortable. Or both.

This whole situation is _beyond_ uncomfortable. Far beyond. Calling it uncomfortable would be an understatement of the decade. Lisbon would probably laugh and call him a hypocrite – after all, what he basically did for a living these days was making people uncomfortable - as opposed to what he did before when all he did was giving them false hope in the name of comfort that justified the means (and just so happened to help him, too, financially). Getting in their faces, teasing the truth out of them, pushing their limits, pushing and pulling until they either blew up or gave up. This, _this_ was what he excelled at – making others uncomfortable, pressing their buttons, rubbing them the wrong way, getting their knickers in a bunch and all the other synonymous expressions – this was his niche, his talent, his calling. Him complaining about being uncomfortable would be laughable. Lisbon would say that he finally got a taste of his own medicine- Lisbon would-

Lisbon- Lisbon was worried about him. _She was-_

He opens his eyes, the sound of her voice in his head. The sweet illusion is momentarily gone as soon as the pale afternoon light from the half-way boarded-up window hits his eyes again. The man is right there, leaning low over him and almost touching him. Too close – so close he can feel the musty, old-dusty-wardrobe smell of his clothes, overriding the memory of cinnamon warmth. So close he jolts again. His leg moves with him this time, but is slow to react, Jane notes detachedly. A bad sign for sure.

Vaguely, he remembers the statistics - being taken hostage drastically reduces one's chances to survive. He's not one to put much stock into statistics: they lie, just like people. But those numbers aren't a good omen either. Jane doesn't believe in miracles; he already survived a few kidnappings, and while that gave him valuable experience on what to do and not to do, he felt that he might not get quite as lucky this time around. He tries to be honest with himself. 

Honestly, he expects the worst. 

That’s when the man does something _unexpected_. Jane was not sure what to expect at all, but that was not one of those things. What did he expect? For the man to take a photo to go along with a supposed ransom demand to his friends? A threat for probably insulting either this man or one of his friends or relatives? Wouldn’t be the first time. Or maybe a good smack down, which, judging by his sensations, might have already went down at some point. God, he was _sore_. If only he could remember for sure. This was as frustrating as it was frightening, which was a lot. 

Instead of any of these things, the man inches back a few steps, giving him space.

Then, he apologizes.

His voice is lower than average, hoarse, but remarkably sincere.

-Mister Jane, - he says, his voice jumping at “Jane”, - I am so happy you woke up. That was quite an accident that you’ve had!

_Accident?_ Jane blinks up at him owlishly. From his position on the bed he can’t do much, and the gag that’s still in his mouth sure tells a story much different from an _accident_ of any sorts that this strange man would like him to believe in. As if reading his mind, the man smiles at him again:

-That? – and he points one long, wiry finger at him, - In your mouth. I am so terribly sorry, but I had to do it. You see, mister Jane, - and his voice lilted again, - You were very restless while unconscious. You hit your head very hard – awfully hard, and fainted. I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up. I helped you, you see. Took you here, to help you. Gave you medicine. You’re safe here. This, all of this, is for your own safety. Your dreams were so restless, I thought you might end up biting your own tongue on accident! So I put it in, as a precaution. Do you understand what I’m saying?

_Medicine_ , Jane noted dimly amongst the rambling, _must be the reason why I can’t move. Means it’s not permanent – good._ A low undercurrent over his internal voice, the man kept monologuing – he was full-on rambling. He was also apparently raving mad. _Biting his tongue off while dreaming? A_ gag _as a precaution?_

Even so, Jane managed a small, careful nod that wouldn’t hurt his poor, buzzing, skull-crackingly-aching head too much. Fuzzy as his mind was, he knew one thing for sure: he needed to cooperate. That’s what Lisbon used to tell him: _play nice, Jane_. _Jane, won’t you please cooperate? We need to work together on this, Jane._ Even if his first instinct was to laugh at the incredulousness of his story or try and kick in anger and fear or simply turn away towards the wall and try very hard to believe this was a dream – he needed to cooperate. That was the only correct answer, for now. The man seemed unstable, for a lack of a better word. Not that Jane himself was all that stable – he considered that he was nothing if not self-aware, thank you very much – and for that precise reason, he did not just throw this word around all willy-nilly. He knew what _unstable_ meant – what it did to a man. The shakiness. The erratic behavioral patterns. A head full of scorpions. Jane was all too familiar with it; the way his own mind would jitter and cry and contort at times, in the darkest hours of the night when he was all alone with the red sign burning on the wall of his and Angela’s bedroom – burned into his retinas and into his memories. The things he would dream of; the things he’d do if only he _could_ _just have him for one hour_ -

Bottom line, the man was dangerous. Unstable was dangerous.

Jane clenched his fingers into fists again.

-Well, - the man went on, - now that you’re awake, I suppose I could take it out. Would you like that, mister Jane?

He would, actually. Now that the immediate disorientation of suddenly waking up in an unfamiliar place while tied up has lessened, his senses sharpened, heightened by the fear and urgency of the situation; the rag stuffed so unceremoniously into his mouth made him feel small, almost claustrophobic. Weak. Words were powerful – they were his greatest tool, the double-edged blade though they were. He needed to talk like he needed to breathe, which was also difficult with the nauseating obstruction that threatened to go down his throat and choke him. Suffocation did always sound terrible to him – this would be a terrible way to go. He didn’t want that. At all.

He gave another small nod and then tried his best not to cringe when man’s fingers touched his face softly, almost reverently – like he was a pilgrim recovering a forgotten, long-lost icon. Like an archeologist touching a marble relic of utmost beauty. Those fingers, deft and rough, pulled his jaw slightly down; the lack of autonomy, being manipulated like a doll – it grinded his nerves and it hurt. It was humiliating. Jane felt the pinpricks of fear creeping over his skin, breaking out in goosebumps at the touch. He exhaled harshly through the nose, doing his best not to stare at the man’s face. Close. Too close. They were cold, those hands – and he noticed that his blunt, short-cropped nails were dry and had an almost-bluish tinge to them. _Severe iron-deficiency_ , he confirmed to himself, desperately trying to distract himself when one finger touched his lips delicately, stroked the corner of his mouth, _can be a result of either a genetic predisposition or a number of various external factors, such as diet or-_

The fingers pulled his jaw lower and slipped inside.

Jane fought the instinct to gag at the highly unwelcome intrusion. Briefly, he glanced at the man’s face – and wished he didn’t, because the man stared back at him. He seemed almost transfixed, mesmerized in an unhealthy way as he reached down, grasping the wad of fabric tightly. Then, he slowly pulled it out – saliva-soaked and slightly bloody. _Did he really bite his tongue sometime while unconscious?_

_What happened?_

When the fabric went past his lips and out and _those fingers_ were out, too – slow, exploring fingers – Jane shuddered. The whole unpleasant experience couldn’t have lasted longer than a minute, yet it felt so humiliating he could barely express it in words. It felt eerily similar to a dentist digging around in your mouth, but so much more invasive and personal. He could feel the man stare at him as he licked his dry lips almost instinctively – feeling a crack in the corner with his tongue, iron and salt of his blood. This time, he didn’t dare look back.

-Doesn’t that feel nice? – the man said, casually stuffing the rag into a back pocket.

Jane’s throat felt dry and tight as he swallowed. He was rattled more than he was ready to admit.

God, he missed Lisbon.


End file.
